THE INTERROGATION

The pounding on the library door vibrated through the wood like a heartbeat that wasn’t mine.

“THE POLICE ARE HERE!” Claire shouted sharp, clipped, all in a whipcrack of panic.

Julian went still.

This was execution-still, like a man waiting on the scaffold for the trapdoor to drop. His hand remained on the confession pages.

My hand still rested on his.

Neither of us moved.

Outside the foggy windows, a single blue-and-red flash bled across the glass, smearing the library in guilty color.

Julian inhaled slowly.

“Okay,” he murmured. Not to Claire.

To himself.

To me.

“Julian” I whispered.

He squeezed my fingers once, brief but searing.

“Ava. Whatever happens next? It will be okay I promise you. Now stay behind me.”

I almost laughed; weak and shaking because he said it like we were in the third act of an action film, not a catastrophic police intervention in a Gothic mansion on a cliff.

But another part of me, the part that had stared down Noah, written confessions soaked in blood and truth, and survived two weeks of hell felt something else:

The quiet before battle.

“Julian,” Claire snapped from the hallway, voice half-hiss, half-command. “Open this door or I swear to God I will break it down in heels.”

He rose, gathering the confession papers like they were fragile creatures he needed to shield. But before he moved, he looked at me. Really looked at me and I saw the truth of him in that glance:

He was terrified.

He was ready.

He was both.

I stood too quickly and nearly swayed. He caught my elbow, grounding me with just three fingers.

“You don’t let them twist anything,” he whispered.

His breath brushed my cheek, warm and trembling.

“You tell the truth, and nothing else. If they try to separate us”

“They will,” I said.

“Yes. And when they do…” His voice dropped to a raw thread. “Don’t defend me.”

I blinked. “What?”

“Ava,” he said, stepping closer, “if you defend me, they’ll dig. If they dig, they’ll find more. And if they find more”

“You go to prison for the rest of your life,” I finished.

He nodded once, throat bobbing.

Something inside me sparked like a struck match. Rage, grief, devotion something ancient and stupid and brave.

“Julian,” I whispered, “I’m not abandoning you.”

His jaw clenched like he wanted to say good or don’t you dare or I need you but he didn’t.

Because Claire banged on the door again.

“WE DO NOT HAVE TIME FOR WHISPERED POETRY. OPEN. THE. DAMN. DOOR.”

He pulled away.

The library felt colder immediately.

When he opened the door, Claire stood there looking like she’d aged ten years and gained the strategic fury of five Pentagon officials. Behind her, two officers waited. Serious. Neutral. But alert the way wolves go quiet before pouncing.

“Mr. Vale,” one said. “Miss Alessi. We need statements. Now.”

Claire swept in front of them like a human barricade.

“They will give statements when I say they’re ready”

“Ma’am,” the officer interrupted, “we have a warrant.”

Claire’s mouth twitched.

Oh, she hated that.

Hated it the way Miranda Priestly hated cerulean incompetence.

Julian stepped forward before she could explode.

“It’s fine,” he said. Quiet. Controlled. Fatalistic.

His voice was a man walking to his own funeral in slow motion.

The older officer looked him over. “We’ll need to separate you both for questioning.”

A bolt of panic shot through me.

“No,” I said before thinking, stepping closer to Julian like my body moved without permission.

The younger officer looked up. “Miss Alessi, it’s procedure.”

“She’s recovering from surgery,” Julian said sharply. “She needs…”

“A lawyer,” Claire finished, forcing a brittle smile that could cut glass. “Which she has. As do you. And nobody says a word until I am in the room.”

The officers exchanged a look.

The older one said, “We can start with Mr. Vale in the drawing room.”

Julian nodded.

But when he turned to follow them, I moved

Not to stop him.

Not to cling.

Just… instinct.

He paused.

His eyes met mine.

And everything he couldn’t say, everything too dangerous, too tender, too explosive lit between us like a match in a dark theater.

You’re not alone.

I’m scared.

Don’t break.

Don’t leave.

Don’t forget me.

All in one look.

He leaned in not touching, but close enough that his breath warmed the shell of my ear.

“Ava.”

A whisper meant only for me.

“I meant what I said. If this is the end of us.”

My pulse stumbled.

“I want the last thing you remember to be the truth.”

And then he left.

Just walked away, shoulders squared, confession clutched in his hand like a sword.

The officers followed him.

Claire exhaled shakily, pressing her fingers to her forehead.

“Oh my God,” she muttered, “I need a martini, a rosary, and possibly a fully staffed crisis response team.”

I didn’t laugh.

I couldn’t.

The world had tilted under my feet.

Not with fear.

With inevitability.

The house hummed around me like it knew a reckoning had finally arrived.

Claire turned to me, those sharp eyes softening just enough.

“Ava… sweetheart… please don’t faint. I do not need two collapses on record today.”

My throat felt tight, thin, fragile.

“Claire,” I whispered, “what if they take him?”

Her expression flickered pity, anger, heartbreak, all tangled.

“They might,” she admitted. “But you” She took my arms gently, surprising me. “You are going to keep breathing. You hear me? Because this story isn’t done.”

I swallowed hard.

“It feels like the ending.”

“No,” Claire whispered. “This is the midpoint twist.” She winked

A tiny, weak sound escaped me. Half laugh, half sob.

She squeezed my shoulders.

“Good girl. Now let’s go. They’re waiting.”

I didn’t feel ready.

I felt like a glass about to shatter.

But I followed Claire down the hall toward whatever awaited me.

Toward officers.

Questions.

Consequences.

And the echo of Julian’s whisper still burning in my ear.

This wasn’t the ending.

This was the moment the story sharpened its teeth.

After an hour in an uncomfortable police car where Claire was talking too much for her own good we finally arrived at the station. The room the officers led me into wasn’t the dim, cinematic dungeon crime shows love.

No flickering bulb, no metal chains, no dramatic rain tapping against a window like a moody musical number.

It was worse.

It was ordinary.

A beige room with a rectangular table, two chairs, and a tiny digital recorder blinking like an impatient heartbeat.

Silence-soaked carpet.

A space specifically designed to make you feel small without ever touching you.

Claire entered right behind me, heels clicking in a rhythm that said: I dare anyone to breathe incorrectly in my presence.

“Ava sits on the left,” she ordered, pointing like a general planting a flag.

The detective waiting for us. Detective Harrow didn’t correct her. He just studied me with the kind of gaze that catalogues, assesses, and files you before you even sit down.

He had the look of a man who’d seen too much:

lined eyes, steady hands, a jaw like he’d clenched through a dozen tragedies.

“Miss Alessi,” he greeted. “Thank you for cooperating.”

I sat. Claire sat beside me like a statue carved from steel and Sephora.

He took his own seat.

Turned on the recorder.

“This is Detective Rowan Harrow, questioning Ava Alessi in connection with the death of Noah Brooks, the incident at Blackwater Hall, and the ongoing investigation into the Vale brothers.”

My pulse stuttered.

He folded his hands.

“Miss Alessi, do you understand that you’re not under arrest, but you are a person of interest in multiple connected events?”

Claire shot up a hand.

“She understands. She’s here voluntarily. She will answer what she can.”

He nodded once, unfazed.

Then his attention cut to me.

“Ava,” he said, dropping the formal tone. “Can I call you Ava?”

I nodded.

He kept his voice calm. Soft. Like he was coaxing a confession from a frightened witness in a war documentary.

“I need you to understand something very clearly,” he said. “Your situation is dangerous.”

My breath caught.

“Not because we think you’re malicious. Not because we think you planned anything. But because.”

He leaned forward, elbows on the table.

“you ending up around dead or injured people. That puts you at risk of becoming a suspect even when you’re innocent.”

The words hit like a slap.

Claire stiffened, lips thinning.

But Detective Harrow continued gently:

“That means one thing: if you hold anything back even unintentionally you won’t just be hurting Julian Vale.”

He paused.

“You’ll be hurting yourself.”

My stomach dropped.

“Ava,” he said quietly, “the law doesn’t care if you’re scared. It cares if you’re truthful.”

I swallowed hard, throat tight.

His gaze sharpened a fraction.

“Do you understand why you’re in this room?”

My fingers gripped the edge of the chair. “Because I killed Noah.”

Claire touched my wrist, a silent careful.

Harrow nodded. “Yes. In self-defense, potentially. But we need details. Consistency. Clarity. Otherwise that story falls apart in front of a prosecutor, and someone else will write the narrative for you.”

My heart thudded painfully.

Julian.

The attic.

Hanna.

Levi’s shadow.

The polaroids.

How much could I say?

How much should I say?

He slid a photograph across the table.

Noah.

Alive.

“You were the last person he saw before he died,” Harrow said softly. “And sometimes, Ava… that’s enough to bury someone if they’re not careful.”

The panic curled at the base of my spine. I suddenly felt very, very real to myself.

Not a ghostwriter.

Not a plot point for tabloids.

A girl in trouble.

“Tell me what happened that night,” he said. “Start to finish. No dramatics. No metaphors. Just the truth.”

My mouth opened then closed.

Because to explain Noah meant explaining the attic.

Which meant explaining the pictures.

Which meant explaining Levi.

Which meant implicating Julian.

Harrow saw the hesitation.

He leaned back, studying me not unkindly, but intelligently.

“Ava,” he said, “I know when someone is protecting someone else.”

I froze.

He folded his hands again.

“And you need to understand something: Julian Vale is currently in another room. He’s telling us things. Serious things.”

My breath stopped.

He knew exactly what he was doing.

“He’s talking about Levi,” Harrow continued. “About the label. About the girls. He has been surprisingly cooperative regarding his brother and the historical abuse.” He locked his eyes into mine. “Now…Noah Brooks is a separate matter and one you’ll need to address yourself.”

Claire tensed beside me.

“If Julian confesses and you don’t corroborate?” Harrow said softly. “You look complicit. You look like you were part of hiding things. Even if you weren’t”

My fingers trembled.

“Let me make this simple,” he said. “If you stay silent to protect him… We might decide you were more involved than you were.”

The words sank like anchors.

Protect him and you incriminate yourself. Incriminate him and you lose him.

“Ava.” Harrow’s voice softened again. “I’m not your enemy. I am trying to keep you out of prison.”

Prison.

The word chilled through me.

He waited.

The room felt too small. Too warm. Too quiet.

Finally I spoke.

And it was the smallest voice I’d ever heard come from myself.

“Noah… started sending me messages.”

Harrow’s eyes sharpened. “Go on.”

“He wanted me to know the truth. The whole truth.”

“And Julian?” he asked. “Where does he fit into this?”

My throat closed.

Because my heart answered before my logic:

He fits into everything.

Before I could respond, the door cracked open.

Another officer leaned in.

“Detective? He’s asking for her.”

My pulse exploded.

“He?” Claire snapped.

“Julian Vale,” the officer said. “He wants to see Ava before we continue.”

Detective Harrow exhaled like this was both a complication and a gift.

“Ava,” he said softly, urgently, “listen to me when you go in there? Do not promise him anything. Don’t protect him. Not right now. You can care about him. But you cannot sink with him.”

My chest ached.

Julian wants to see me.

Now.

Before giving them the rest.

Claire grabbed my hand. “You do NOT speak to him without me!”

But the officer interrupted:

“He specifically asked for her alone.”

Claire’s rage registered at a frequency only dogs should hear.

But Harrow nodded.

“This might be good,” he murmured. “Let them talk. She may answer more after.”

My pulse hammered violently.

The officer gestured.

“Miss Alessi? This way.”

I rose on unsteady legs.

And as I stepped toward the interrogation hallway toward Julian, toward something irreversible my mind spun with two truths:

I could save myself.

Or I could save him.

But I wasn’t sure I could do both.